


Marcus Aurelius; Meditations

by alyblack



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Character Death, Character Study, Currently obsessed with Thomas/James, F/M, I Don't Even Know, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Post-Reflections, Working Out My Feelings Through Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-16 02:19:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14802494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyblack/pseuds/alyblack
Summary: "Wrongly, Peter assumed Captain Flint would share some of his shame, perhaps inherited from the man he had been as James McGraw, but the time for submitting to humiliation was long gone. There was too much blood and too many fresher regrets under his coats to hold onto the dishonor of having loved a man."





	Marcus Aurelius; Meditations

**Author's Note:**

> I finished the second season of Black Sails yesterday and I needed to write this to cope with my feelings. Basically, I know there's a lot of water to run down this bridge, but I STILL NEEDED TO COPE!!!! Kill me now.

A thousand life times wouldn’t be quite enough to quench the slight sea sickness he had been cursed with since, as a boy, he had first entered a ship. Now, as a captain, after years at wave’s mercy, he adapted, shoving back down the nausea which insisted in its appearance at the most inconvenient of times. The dark sky filled with bright stars indicated a long way from dawn, when the water would be calm and the worst of the storm would be behind them; nights like these brought a different type of ache to his chest, squeezing the last remaining drops of nostalgia for the life taken away from him in London.

Memories flooded his never resting mind, cold nights of feet dragging across the imponent Hamilton mansion, when Thomas would sneak past his servants and Miranda’s bed to join him in the gallery, the library or his bedroom. No amount of time could ever tarnish those memories. It was them and the prospect of bringing to completion Thomas’ vision for Nassau and the future of piracy, that kept him going, strong and unyielding to fight another day.

On his way back home, Captain Flint kept his trained eyes glued to the bookshelf in his compartment, trying to find peace in between his papers. The long-lost tears he spared at the sight of Miranda’s blood covering the expensive flooring of Peter’s dining room, were no companion to him in this turbulent ship. As he did with everything else, at the very moment his ship sailed away from the Carolinas, he chose to bury another one of his demons in the back of his head. Her brutal ending only adding to the list of regrets he carried around; another black mark of debt he owned to the Hamilton name. Worse than the demons he was forced to face every time the world went quiet, judgmental of his mischiefs, was the unending question hammering his sanity: would Thomas ever be able to forgive him?

In fact, every time he stopped to second guess himself, he couldn’t run away from the fear that: no, he probably wouldn’t. If not for the stains of blood in his hand, or the destruction he brought upon his and Miranda’s life, he was certain he could never forgive the ruin of their dream. Now that he had burned the last bridge they could’ve had with civilization, there was nowhere else to run and he could only accept that he was nothing else but a pirate. Thomas would never forgive him for that.

Long ago, he and Miranda had made a promise to him, to God and to each other: taking care of one-another. Time after time he had the taken the most egregious paths in the name of that vow and of one he had made with himself: to never give up on Nassau. And, as sure as the waves would drag him down to his death, time after time, he had failed both of those promises. Now, Miranda was dead, there would be no hope for his home and he only had himself to blame.

Flint would’ve liked to say it was all Peter’s fault; he hadn’t been truly inclined to listen, to accept and to welcome the possibility for peace, all he had cared about was easing his guilty heart. Motivated by a shame, so deep and so old he hadn’t dared speak out loud even when there was no one else around to hear, the horror of having betrayed his friends.  Still, despite the questionable nature of the governor’s offer to help, for the greater good, the captain had been willing to stand in front of the men who had judged him and condemned Thomas to the upmost horrifying of fates and ask them to judge him once more. He would’ve liked to blame it all on the governor, but he couldn’t.

Wrongly, Peter assumed Captain Flint would share some of his shame, perhaps inherited from the man he had been as James McGraw, but the time for submitting to humiliation was long gone. There was too much blood and too many fresher regrets under his coats to hold onto the dishonor of having loved a man. 

Hiding behind closed eyelids, he could almost smell the aroma of the trees outside the living room in the Hamilton home, could almost hear the delicate notes of Miranda’s piano and the whispers of Thomas’ soft voice reading from his Meditations, enchanting both with his words, charming his way in and out of both their hearts. He knew, even now, she had loved her husband like any other woman would, just as he knew he had served as a poor substitute when Thomas passed.

Miranda hadn’t loved him, not really. Bonded together by their feelings for the same man, the unfortunate nature of their circumstances, driven by the shreds left from a great man’s dream, they had tried their best to make home in the midst of chaos. Years relaying on her to be the only sound proof that his past life hadn’t been a desperate sailor’s fantasy and now she was gone. His heart had grieved her and blood had been spilled in her vengeance. There was nothing else to be done but to relent her memory to the place where he stashed her husband.

Sitting at his own trial, facing a square of people who would’ve hanged him for his crimes, he had told them his only regret was having entered that town in the hopes of achieving reconciliation with England, but that had been as far from the truth as he was capable of being. No man could’ve had as many of them as Captain Flint. Especially when the creation of his own persona was at the very top of the list, right next to running away without trying to save Thomas.

There aren’t many moments quite as like the one when you realize everything is being taken away from you and there’s nothing to be done but to accept. That night, standing next to Miranda and Peter, after having been exposed to his fellow men as the worst kind of scum, was that moment. He could recollect every single decision which led them to then, but there was only so many he could regret. Trusting Peter was certainly one of them, leaving England with Miranda and not going after Thomas was another, not having killed Alfred Hamilton sooner was the only one he managed to correct.

He couldn’t regret the affair, though, if it could’ve been called that. He couldn’t regret the intensity with which he had loved Thomas. The ocean could turn blood red right in front of his eyes, the fury of the Gods and the ropes of men wouldn’t be enough to force him to negate what they had shared. And it burned his bones every time he remembered he had chosen to walk away and let Thomas rot in an asylum, deprived from family, friends, books, laughter, music. He walked away and Thomas took his own life. A regret too many and the one which led way to the rest. After that, there was not much to be salvaged from the life he made for himself. Once he became J. Flint and left James McGraw behind, regret was all he knew.

 


End file.
